After a mediocre night in ballyhooed Missoula and a quick dip in the Bel Aire Motel pool, the Senge-Marton team had its second major crisis (the stalled car in Teddy Roosevelt Park was the first).  Nate wanted to split off and rent a car so he could go hiking in the mountains.  This was understandable.  The mountains of Montana are majestic, daunting and inviting at the same time.  But as we wandered half-lost look for the car rental lot, Nate had a change of heart. We were driving to Seattle.

At the Idaho border we got out of the car to take in the sweeping mountains and endless pines.  The air was completely fresh, and easily the coldest we’d felt all trip. About fifteen minutes later, as we drove down in Idaho, the car began rabidly overheating.  We pulled over on the highway, and the car steamed.  Our hunch was that the emergency break had somehow kicked into place, which overstressed the car motor, which was now speeding with the brake on.  This theory was never proven, nor disproven, like the existence of a higher god.

After thirty minutes of letting the car cool, we were able to start it again, though only for half a mile before it overheated again.  It was time for AAA.  They took their sweet time, leaving us in drab and depressing arms of Kellogg, Idaho.  The region we were in was described by Lonely Planet as scenic, with great mountains and lakes, “but also, unfortunately, some racist bastards.”  It’s a damning quote, coming from the usually highly reserved Lonely Planet.

As AAA was on their way, a local mechanic stopped and looked at our car.  He was a nice kid, and offered to fix and replace our blow radiator for $350.   Nate and I both felt bad when we had to turn down his services because the big garage outfit down the road was offering the same for $250.  The garage was in Coeur d’Alene, a massive vacation town on a stunning lake in the north Idaho panhandle.  The tow-truck driver was an ‘aw-shucks’ fella named Steve who had lived there his whole life.  When I asked him why the town had a French name, unlike any other we’d seen in the region, he paused.  “You know, I don’t have any idea.  But now that you mention it, that is strange.  That’s a good question.”

When we arrived at the car repair shop, we were in for a rude surprise.  “Everyone’s home for the weekend,” announced the manager.  It was Saturday at 2pm.   No one would be able to even look at our car until Monday.  This after we had turned down the small-time mechanic in Kellogg who could have fixed it that afternoon.  We felt angry and terrible at the same time.  Sensing these emotions, the manager, named Rick, offered to take a look at it.   He came back with good news, sort of.

“Your radiator is fine.”  His explanation made us realize that we easily could have spent $250 or $350 for nothing.  He agreed on our explanation for the cause of the overheating.  “Right now your car should be fine to drive.” He rattled off some highway pit stops in eastern Washington, then predicted, “either nothing is wrong with your car, or something is really wrong with it.”  Literally minutes after leaving his lot, we found out the answer.  At a red light, the car overheated so badly that we couldn’t even make it back to Rick’s lot.  When we made it back on foot, his secretary informed us that Rick was gone for the weekend.   We finally did get in touch with him, and he advised us to try Randy, another mechanic just three blocks down the road.

Turns out three strip mall blocks are quite a walk.  Not only was our car busted, but the windows were stuck in the down position, so we had to lug our stuff with us so it wouldn’t get stolen.  Tired, sweaty and worried, we arrived at Randy’s.  Randy was certain, after our descriptions, that we had a blown gasket.  He calculated that between parts and labor, that would run us about $1300.  Having decided at the outset that anything north of $500 would probably lead to Suby’s demise, I asked if he knew any mechanic that would consider buying the car for the parts.  He could only think of one, and got us his card.  It was Rick.

One cliché that I actually believe is that it’s often darkest before dawn.  At this point it was past 4pm, with the few remaining business of any use to us closing by 5 for the rest of the weekend.  We had nowhere to stay, no way to get to Seattle, and Nate had a plane to catch in 48 hours.  Even if we could get out of town without paying for a costly cab, we couldn’t just leave Suby in a parking lot abandoned.

Dejected, we lugged our stuff back to Rick’s. The secretary got him on the phone, and we made our pitch.   We’d leave the car with him, mail him the title, and he’d get the best deal he could on the parts. In the end he turned out to be a great guy, and easy to do business with.   He got his son to drive to Spokane, a much bigger town with direct bus lines to Seattle.  Before we got on the road, I had Nate take a final picture of me and Suby.  That bastard and I had a lot of amazing times together, and as I ride the bus to Portland tomorrow, I’ll be churning out a tribute to the car that for so long was the source of and solution to so many of my trials and tribulations.   After six and half years, and 110,000 miles, it was time to move on, with or without the best road trip partner I ever had.